Angel
by sams1ra
Summary: They all thought he was a natural, that he was born to do the job. Truth was, the first time his father showed him how to shoot a gun, he had been scared out of his mind.


**Disclaimer**: I still don't own them. I'm pretty sure you'd know if I did...

**Angel**

Dreams

They all thought he was a natural, that he was born to do the job. Truth was, the first time his father showed him how to shoot a gun, he had been scared out of his mind. He remembered how sweaty his palms got, and how bad his aim was. He didn't remember his father being disappointed, he had just leaned down and showed Dean how to hold the gun again, helped him with his aim. And Dean kept missing. He kept recoiling at the loud sound of the shot being fired. It scared him. The gun was too big for his small hands, but his father had insisted that he learned to fire it. He had to protect Sammy, his father had told him, and he needed the gun to do it. So Dean gritted his teeth and tried again, and again, and again. He kept looking at his dad, wishing his father would understand and take the gun away. For his father to just hold him and say he didn't have to learn how to shoot the gun, how to kill. Dean wished someone would worry about protecting him as much as his father was worried about protecting Sammy, but dad had mistaken those looksas a request for guidance with his aim, with his technique, with his breathing or the way he was squeezing the trigger.

His father kept taking him to firing practice, and Dean kept missing, kept praying his father would understand. He didn't want to learn. He didn't want to kill. He was scared, and having a gun in his hand didn't make him any less scared. It wasn't until the seven-year-old, almost eight now, had given up all hope that his father would understand, that his father would let go and take the gun away and just hold him again, that Dean started hitting the mark with deadly accuracy. Once he had let go of that hope, he stopped missing the target. He hasn't missed since. And he will never forget how proud his father had been.

Well, it wasn't exactly true that he didn't miss. There were times when he had missed. When the weight on his shoulders was too heavy to bear, when he couldn't stand the constant fighting between his father and his brother, when he just wanted to go away and never come back, never be found again -when he really wanted to, that's when he missed. Sometimes he paid for it, but he made damn sure no one else ever did.

He had to take care of Sammy because that's what dad had told him to do, and he had to take care of dad, well, because he was the only parent Dean had left. Dean had tried his best, wishing with all his might that it will all be over, that the hunting wouldn't be the only thing in his life, that the fighting wouldn't be so damn constant, that someone will finally pay attention and notice that he was so messed up he didn't even know who he was anymore. And then Sam left. And then his dad left. And then there was nothing left, and still, no one noticed.

There was only one person in the world that knew him, knew who he was, who he really was. One person that he could openly talk to, that he could share all his secrets with. One person that knew all his dreams and comforted him when he told her his nightmares. But she wasn't real. She was just in his mind.

The first time he had dreamt about her was the night after the first time his father taught him to shoot a gun. She was a scrawny little girl, with pigtails and freckles and big doe-eyes. She wore a baseball cap and a dirty uniform, and didn't really act like a little girl. In his dream, his nightmare, Dean dreamt of the gun. He dreamt of aiming and shooting at the cans lined up on the large branch. It still scared him, even in the dream. He yelped in fear when she touched his shoulder, but that only made her laugh. She asked why he was so scared, but Dean didn't answer her. Never talk to strangers, he knew that much. Even if it was just a dream. She pushed him and laughed again, and then threw her mitt at him and asked if he wanted to play a little baseball. He thought it only poignant when she told him her name was Angel.

Dean kept dreaming of her, usually when he was scared or miserable or just sad, and the little girl grew as he grew. He used to laugh at her when they hit puberty and she still looked more like a boy then a girl, but then she grew up, matured. She looked nothing like a boy anymore. Her hair wasn't very long, hanging down at about shoulder length, in wonderful curls. She kept saying she wanted to cut it, and he kept asking her not to, so she didn't. It was always about the same length, so he figured she didn't. It wasn't like she was real anyway.

Angel didn't turn into the Baywatch-babe Dean had hoped she would become. Hey, it was his fantasy after all, wasn't it? She was short, and kind of flat, but he still thought she was pretty. Dean found it extremely funny that she kept calling him a giant, and extremely comforting when she agreed that it just wasn't natural for his little brother to be taller than he was.

He used to tell her everything, and she would listen. Really listen, not just pretend to so he wouldn't bug her. She would hold his hand, and look at him, and hug him when he needed her to hug him. He didn't even have to ask.

She would tell him about herself too. She told him she lost her parents and her baby brother to a fire when she was two. She had had an ear infection and her parents didn't want her brother to catch it, so they sent her to stay with her grandparents, and then they died and she was stuck with her grandparents. She hated living with them, but Dean pointed out there were worse ways to live. Like moving from one town to the other and never having the time or the chance to make friends. He used to hold her when she cried, like after her grandparents died and a distant cousin shifted her off to an all-girls boarding school where the girls hated her. Dean couldn't understand how anyone could hate her. She was his angel. She would smile at him and put her head on his shoulder. She loved it when he called her his angel.

That's how it was in the beginning. They would talk and hug and take comfort in each other, but as they grew, the ways they used to comfort each other changed, too. Became of more physical nature. But she still insisted that they talked first, get everything off their chests before they went on to the other stuff. She said it felt better that way. And she still agreed that younger siblings shouldn't be taller than their older siblings. For a fantasy, she sure was a good one.

Unfortunately, as the years went by, Dean saw less and less of her, when he needed her more and more. He would rarely dream about her anymore, hardly ever just _dream_ of her, anyway. He did see her when he was knocked unconscious, or if he passed out. So when things got too bad, Dean would miss his shot. And then there would be pain, but it was worth it. Because than he got tosee his angel again, and she would make everything better.

The last time he had seen her was after he got electrocuted trying to kill that rawhead. He had spent hours with her, talking to her about everything, listening to her boast about killing her first ghost and then… well, she was a fantasy after all.

A/N: Not quite sure where this is going, but I'll let you know as soon as I find out… Reviews would help… Oh, and I'm pretty sure I've got some spelling and/or grammar mistakes, so sorry...


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